


dulce et decorum est pro patria mori

by Quietbang



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dubious Consent, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Max Trevelyan is a beautiful summer flower, Past Abuse, Slow Build, Tevinter Imperium, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It wouldn’t have mattered, Dorian thought, if he hadn’t wanted to be good. </i>
</p>
<p>written for a <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14317.html?thread=53839341#t53839341"> prompt</a> requesting a Dorian who has a lot of internalized homophobia and shame and so has to get drunk in order to have sex.  </p>
<p>It's about that, but it's also about growing up and identity and trying to be better than you are and failing-- and finding home anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sweet and beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> So, archive warning for underage is for some drunken teenage kissing (both parties 14), however there is also some dubiously consensual activity taking place between older adolescents (17-19). ALthough this isn't technically underage, I felt I ought to warn you for that if it makes you uncomfortable.   
> This fic also deals with the Tevinter Imperium, as modeled loosely on Ancient Rome, and thus there are depictions of slavery.   
> There is also a lot of homophobia, interalized and otherwise. These are the overall warnings for the fic, I will be more specific in chapter notes if necessary. I will say that a lot of Dorian's experiences and feelings in that regard are modelled on my own, and I am someone who was sent to conversion therapy. I note this because a few of my alpha-readers said that those emotions are pretty raw in here, and even if you are not someone who is usually triggered by internalised homophobia it may be upsetting.   
> Dorian is an unreliable narrator.

Maxwell Trevelyan is—not what a mage ought to be. That, Dorian tells himself fervently, is the only reason he can’t stop watching him. 

He tells himself this every time he catches himself staring as Max tries to run up a damned mountain or fords a river, paying no attention to the bleeding blisters on his hands and the slime and dirt that was forming a second skin. 

It should have been disgusting, just another sign of the southern barbarism to which he had been condemned to surrounding himself with. 

Unfortunately, it was sort of arousing. 

Max was a battle-mage, a knight enchanter, a second son—in Tevinter he would have been shipped off to Seheron as soon as he had his 16th birthday, ordered to burn as many Qunari to a crisp as he possibly could before he faded away at 25, his life ended on the business end of a greataxe on Seheron or with shaking hands and milky eyes in a Qarinus lyrium den. 

It was strange, really. Most of the Southern mages were pale, downtrodden—apologising as soon as they’d look at you, palms red and with a hungry look about them from the months they had spent on the run, unused to fighting. Those towers of theirs had frowned on battle magic, and from what Dorian had overheard during afternoons in the mage tower scouring for reagents or looking up references the Mage-Templar war had been fought, on the mage side anyway, primarily with a lot of fire and ice glyphs and prayers. 

Not all of the southern mages were retiring flowers, of course. A few were defensive, clutching daggers in the pockets of their robes where they thought you couldn’t see (they wouldn’t have lasted a week in Tevinter, couldn’t stop their hands from stealing towards their secreted weapon every few minutes to check that it was still there). Those mages were tense and loud, defiantly taking up space and jumping when you brushed up against them, a defensive spell already on their lips. 

Max was—neither. He wasn’t broken, wasn’t even really dented, believed in what he did fervently but always with an extra ounce of compassion for those who felt differently. 

Maybe that was what happened when you knew that you were loved. Max had grown up with an older sister who stood to inherit and a younger brother who had been born blind—he had spent the first 13 years of his life with them, fighting with his sister and defending his brother and breathing the crisp country air. He had manifested late, had been allowed certain privileges because of his noble birth, had written and received letters throughout his time in the Circle. Hadn’t been allowed home, of course, never that—but from the stories he had been told by the other mages from Ostwick, Dorian knew that Max had been mostly happy. 

It was a revelation next to most of the southern mages, a mage who could remember his mothers name, who had not lost a family or a language or a future. Who had somehow, never learned to hate himself. 

Dorian envied that more than anything. 

Max was beautiful. His hands were calloused, his shoulders broad and muscled, his flat Ostwick drawl always ready for a joke. 

He was beautiful, and Dorian should have learned from that to stay away. If he had learned anything from 23 years in Tevinter, it was that he should avoid beautiful things. 

It wouldn’t have mattered, Dorian thought, if he hadn’t wanted to be good. 

He didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Dorian was the heir, and the Pavuses had never quite managed the spare—as an adult, Dorian would think on that and _wonder_ , did they loathe each other so much? Had there ever been a time, before he was born, that they had looked upon their relationship as anything other than bitter duty to a greater good?

Tevinter marriage and breeding practices were many things, but no reasonable person could declare them _selfish_. 

So Dorian was the sole child, the sole _investment_ , all of their not-inconsiderable resources having gone into making him clever and witty and charming, into making him into an investment to be _proud of_. 

He had obliged, manifesting early, conjuring illusions of animals before he was out of his _praetexta_. By the age of four, he was working for two hours a day with Gnaeus, a wizened elven slave who taught him basic barrier and conjuration magic, and spending at least 3 by his father’s side as he received guests or sat in the Magisterium. 

By the time he was sent to the Circle, he was already known as a charming boy, studious and kind-hearted. Gnaeus had only whipped Celeris once before Dorian realised that his actions had consequences, and afterwards he had snuck into the slave quarters with a quartered pomegranate in penance for his actions. 

They had been milk-brothers, and now that Dorian was six he needed to learn to comport himself as a magister. Whipping was a punishment fit only for a slave, and although Celeris was only six himself he knew that he was lucky to be the whipping boy for someone who truly cared if others were hurt on his behalf. 

Dorian was terrible at healing, but he had tried his best, chubby hands glowing faintly as he tried to will the lashes closed. Eventually, he had had to leave, and Celeris had returned to work, his wounds still smarting red. 

It was the first time Dorian had disobeyed a direct order. 

For a long time, it looked as though it had been the last.   
\-------------------------------------------  
Rilenus was one of the other prodigies—where ‘prodigy’ might as well have been Old Tevene for “only child—and they were close friends. 

He was an appropriate friend for Dorian. His grandfather had a seat in the Magisterium, and although his father was a grasping second son of little importance and a lyrium habit that was the talk of the town, his mother was the Praetor for all of Qarinus. 

Because of this, they had been pushed together from an early age—if Rilenus had been female, no doubt they would have been betrothed before either could speak. It was perfectly possible they might have loathed each other, as Dorian did so many of his appropriate companions—Lucius was deliberately cruel to his slaves even as a boy, and Seranus was so _dull_ \-- but Rilenus was different. 

He was clever, and kind, with a hint of a stutter that had been trained out of him as a boy. At 14, they were both in apprenticeships already, while their peers back at the circle struggled with casting any form of creation magic. 

Rilenus was a spirit healer. Dorian was a necromancer. They both played with spirits of the fade, dancing on the edge of danger. 

They had grown up together, and it was natural to feel attached to your brothers. Had they been Soporati, or even Laetans, by this age they would already be in the Imperial Army, where such commitment to your comrades was a requirement. 

At 24, Dorian knows that he was in love with him. 

At 14, Dorian knew only that he would have died for him. 

That in itself was dangerous, because Rilenus was in trouble almost constantly, charming his way out of punishment with his sharp wit and clever tongue. 

At a reception for the newly ascended Magister Julia, Rilenus sidled up by Dorian, carefully carrying two goblets of wine. 

He passed one off to Dorian, who drank it too fast, trying to assuage the twisting in his belly that occurred whenever he caught a glimpse of the other boy’s flushed cheeks. 

“I dare you to transform Magister Aevara’s diadem into a frog.” 

Dorian laughed. “I’m not doing that.” 

“Why not? It’ll be hilarious. They’ll never know it was you—half the Altii in here want to take her down a peg, even your mother calls her ‘jumped up Laetan trash’ behind her back.” 

“They’ll know it was me,” Dorian said slowly and with immense dignity—the wine making his tongue clumsy and thick—“Because I haven’t figured out a way to summon an animal that isn’t purple.” 

Rilenus laughed loudly, drawing several sharp glances from the mingling guests. “That’s amazing, Pavus. You really are that noble, aren’t you?” 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Also, everything I summon seems to be poisonous. Once I summoned a wisp for a bit of companionship—and it _bit_ me!” 

He frowned at his empty glass. “Let’s go out to the gardens.” 

Rilenus whined a bit but acquiesced soon enough, and they both headed out into the gardens, taking the opportunity to secret a bottle each of Sun-Vint in their robes as they passed by the refreshments. 

They leaned against gleaming dawnstone benches in the gardens, listening to the chatter of birds as they themselves chattered aimlessly, pointing out constellations and taking swigs of wine. 

As the night drew on, and the party began to wind down— two of Magister Tilanis’ lictors falling victim to a dagger in the back, but nothing more scandalous than that—Dorian became aware of a burning question. 

The moonlight cast shadows over Rilenius’ face, illuminating his sharp cheekbones and ink-black hair, bones that would be aristocratic in two years time but that at 14 were simply beautiful. 

“You,” Dorian said slowly, “Have a very good face.” 

Rilenus smiled drunkenly. “Aw, thanks, Dorian. You… your face is nice too.” 

Dorian plodded on, determinedly. “Can I… can I touch it?”

Rilenus looked confused, but nodded. 

Dorian reached out with a shaking hand—what was he doing?—and gently stroked the other boy’s soft cheek, flushed hot with wine. 

He thought, with a sudden moment of drunken clarity, _this is a feeling I will never forget_. 

He had to lean forward to touch him, and then their faces were so _close_ together, and it was a matter of seconds before they were kissing. 

That, of course, was when his mother found them. 

Celeris was whipped for it, of course, and in the ensuing fight—where Dorian begged and pleaded and screamed and asked to be struck instead—he lost the memory of that touch. 

It was the first of many things he would lose to himself.   
\----------------------------------------------------------  
He was 17, in his third year in Minrathous, when he discovered the lyrium dens. 

He was doing well under Magister Alexius—the work was fascinating and difficult and _new_ , and when the paper on their findings was presented to the Circle his name was right there in print, second only to Gereon Alexius himself. 

His son, Felix, was still in the Circle—three years younger than Dorian and with a quick mind, his mother doted on him. During late nights when Dorian was in the library, his back aching from being hunched over a pile of difficult-to-translate pre-Andrastian texts, Felix would sneak in with a treat from dinner and an update on the gossip from the Circle. 

Rumour about Dorian were old news at that point, and so it was with a not insignificant amount of interest that he heard that there were whispers that Julian was a _cinaedus_ , that he frequented the lyrium dens in the undercity looking for someone to fuck him. 

He scolded Felix politely for spreading such a vulgar rumour—“ go wash your tongue, you silly boy” – before feigning tiredness and heading for the apprentice quarters. 

However, when he reached the hallway that lead to his bedchambers, he instead turned left, and walked out into the courtyard. 

The lyrium dens of Minrathous were densely packed, men and women in varying states of consciousness reclining on long velvet pillows as they took deep drags of the lyrium smoke. 

In the backrooms, slaves tended great vats of boiling lyrium potions until they crystalized, the thick smoke choking their lungs and tinging their skin a noxious grey-blue. 

 

A slave in a lyrium den did not last long, and so more often than not it was the last job for a body slave who had previously worked the front of the den before he got old, his delicate feminine features fading for the masculine bones of adulthood. 

Dorian had heard stories, of course, but he had never frequented one himself. He slipped in through the doorway, wrinkling his nose at the electric smell in the air. 

Wordlessly, he handed the slave by the door five gold sovereigns, and she pointed him towards an unused pallet in the corner, her thick gold chains clinking slightly as she gestured. 

Uncertainly, feeling very old and very young at once, he stretched out on the cushion. Following the example of the men and women around him, he removed his shoes and his cloak, gasping slightly at the slight tingle in his chest. 

Another slave—an elf, this time, slender and pretty with his hairless brown chest dripping with jewelry—handed him a pipe, its polished wood gleaming slightly in the dim light. He offered him a small bottle filled with a sticky grey tincture, and seemed to take pity on him when Dorian only looked at the offering with wide eyes. 

He expertly filled the pipe, and handed it back to him. 

Dorian nodded his thanks and summoned a small flame to light it. 

Things happened slowly, after that. His mouth was dry and his eyes burned, but his limbs were heavy and soft and the feeling of the soft velvet against his skin was a pleasurable agony. Everything was too much and not enough and he twisted as he tried to remove the upper part of his robes without losing a grip on his pipe. 

“Well, look who it is,” a cold voice drifted over from somewhere behind his shoulder. “Altus Pavus, what _would_ your mother think?”

Dorian winced, squinted, trying to make the world speed up so that at least he wasn’t so damnably _dizzy_. 

“Altus Julian,” he said after a moment, when he was at last able to identify the source of the cold words. The other boy was in a state of decadent dishevelment, his mussed bronze hair—his mother had Orlesian in her, although nobody of any standing would dare point it out to her face—and   
slightly ashy skin testament to the amount of time he had been here for. 

“You’re not going to tell my mother.” 

“Oh, why not?”

“Because, you stupid oaf, you’d have to admit that you were here as well.” He allowed a self-satisfied smirk to break across his face. “And you don’t want that any more than I do?”

Julius rolled his eyes. “You say that, but Merana manifested last week. She can inherit now—I’ve nothing to lose.” 

“Have you been disinherited already, then?” Dorian asked, trying to keep his voice level. The other boy was drawing closer, his soft hand resting lightly on Dorian’s exposed chest. 

“Not yet,” Julian whispered, drawing out the words like a fine wine. “But it’s only a matter of time.” 

The last words were whispered directly into his ear, and the sensation was too much, his skin tingling at the heat. 

“Us outcasts have to stick together, don’t you think, Dorian?”

Then he was kissing him, and it was nothing like Rilenus, too hard and too fast and too _much_ , like 

Julian was drowning and was pulling him down with him, too much teeth and shaking with adrenaline. 

When he pulled away, feeling shaky and unsettled and _aroused_ , Dorian glared at him. “We’re nothing alike,” he whispered. 

“Oh yeah?” Julian said softly. “Then prove it.” His hands trailed pointedly over Dorian’s chest, when had he taken off his overrobe, why couldn’t he remember?

“Here?” Dorian asked, gulping slightly. 

“Look around, Altus Pavus,” lips like rasberries and words like poisoned honey, “Nobody here can remember their own names, let alone yours.” 

“Does that include you?” Dorian asked shakily. 

“Don’t be silly, Pavus,” he said silkily. “I’m going to remember this for a _long_ time.” 

He reached forward then, pulling the pipe that Dorian still clutched out of his grasp and setting it next to the pallet. He traced a hand down Dorian’s neck. 

His touch burned, his nerves were on fire, an electric fire of jumps and snaps that nothing could extinguish. 

With a choking gasp, he allowed his head to be forced down, opening his mouth instinctively to take the other boy’s hot length. 

It was good and bad and too much all at once, salty and sweet and hot and sweat and he was nauseous, the lyrium made the room spin and his skin feel hot, he was going to tear off his skin, he was going to die, this was filthy and dirty and he liked it even if he didn’t—

In the lyrium haze, he imagined another boy, another place, the gardens outside the villa where he and Rilenus had played as children, his cock would be darker than the rest of him, his thatch of hair coarse and black in contrast to the liquid ink of the hair on his head. Dorian would get on his knees for him, and the act would be degrading, it couldn’t not be, but Rilenus would groan and tease and he would make Dorian feel _good_ \--

Julian pulled out before he came, splattering hot spend across Dorian’s bare torso. He frowned at him, his blue Orlesian eyes narrowing, before wiping his chest off roughly with the edge of Dorian’s cloak. 

He straightened his robes and left the den without a word, leaving Dorian lying on the cushion, his hands shaking. He wasn’t sure how to feel. 

Some of the others had been watching, sating their pleasure with their hands or with the body slaves provided for an extra fee—Dorian looked away at that, House Pavus did not bleed slaves and they did not fuck them either, Dorian had brought enough shame upon the House that night without adding to it by lusting even accidentally for one who could only acquiesce, not consent. 

The lyrium was wearing off, and his head was aching, and he was aware of how ridiculous he looked. He pushed himself up off the ground, closing and tying his robes with shaking hands.   
He felt nauseous. He felt frightened. He felt—he gave up on trying to name his feelings, focusing instead on the surprisingly difficult task of putting one foot in front of the other as he staggered through the undercity. 

Back at the apprentice chambers, he fetched a bucket of water, casting muffle so as not to wake any of the other apprentices. The sky was a soft orange-purple, and as he carried the water back to his chambers he heard the tell-tale sounds of slaves rising to light the fires and prepare the morning meal.   
He didn’t have much time.   
Quickly, and with shaking hands—Maker, why wouldn’t his hands stop _shaking_ \-- he poured the cold water into the stone washtub and began scrubbing at himself roughly with a piece of soft dragonthorn soap. By the time the others began to rise in earnest, he was changed and bathed, smelling of dragonthorn with not a hair out of place. 

He kept his trembling left hand in his pockets, all the same. You didn’t show weakness in front of the others.   
\---------------------------  
The thing that Dorian knew nobody in the south could understand, the thing that made it all so damnably difficult, is—by Tevinter standards, Halward Pavus was a remarkable man. He didn’t bleed their slaves, didn’t treat them cruelly. He and Lucretia had married at 21 and 18, respectively, and though it took nearly five years for them to produce an heir the fact remained that he did not beat her. 

He had had endless patience for a young Dorian. 

Even when he was 17, angry and lyrium-addled and making a general mess of himself and the family name, Dorian had not doubted that his father loved him. That he was proud of him.   
If he had been a worse man, then—then Dorian would not have blamed him for his cruelty, so perfectly in line as it was with the received wisdom in Altus circles. 

But his father had fought that wisdom, sometimes. He had fought it in the Magisterium, when attempting to make laws against blood magic actually be _enforced_ , when he allowed their slaves families to stay on the grounds, when he had supported and spoken for legislation decrying the rising violence against the soperati because it was _right_ , not because it would pass. 

That was the thing of it. His father had taught him that being a Pavus meant doing what was right, not what was easy. Which meant—and this was the thought that kept him up at night, his stomach twisting hot and heavy with shame—that he thought that the ritual, that _fixing_ him, was what was right. 

Maybe he was right. It _had_ been selfish of him to refuse to marry, to run off to the south like a spoiled child dreaming of _love_ \-- that he had done so would make it much harder to change things when he went back. If he went back. 

He didn’t know if he could go back. 

When Max told him about the retainer, it took a surprising amount of self-control not to tell him everything. Some things were private, but Max’s gentle tone and open face made you want to _tell him things_. It was part of what made him so powerful, and so dangerous. 

He thought that he could do it, that maybe the years would have dulled the hurt—it didn’t. Seeing him, standing in his travelling robes, made his chest hurt and his hands shake. His throat burned for a drink, and his fingers twitched compulsively as fought the urge to drink deeply from the flask on his belt. 

He childishly refused to speak Tevene, starting the conversation in Common so that his father would be slightly wrong-footed throughout the discussion. 

His father wasn’t sorry. He—he still thought that what he had done was _right_. 

Maybe it was. Dorian had been young and hot-headed, he should have been married already, and although two years in the south had done wonders for his temperament it hadn’t quite managed to assuage the aching in his head and in his chest. 

It was only Max’s obvious disgust as he told him about the ritual, voice cracking slightly, that stopped him from running out the door. Max knew, now, and he didn’t disapprove, judging by his slightly incredulous “this is about who you _sleep_ with?” as though it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. 

Dorian didn’t have to be looking at his father to know that they both flinched in synchrony. 

His father was angry, then, as though it was his fault, as though he were the one who had gone against everything he had ever professed to believe in— Dorian was a drunk and a disappointment and a fool, but _when had he ever claimed to be anything else_?

That was the difference between him and his father, you see. He had never claimed to be a good man. 

He flinched when he made the comparison, felt his stomach turn uneasily, he could taste iron and salt in the back of his throat and he needed to leave, he needed to say something, he couldn’t—

He felt Max’s heavy hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to stay here,” he said quietly. “But I think you’ll feel worse if you don’t. You don’t like what he has to say, we leave. No questions asked.” 

“I don’t know that there’s anything he could say that I would like,” Dorian managed with a watery chuckle. “But—alright. Wouldn’t want you to think I was a coward, Inquisitor.” He smiled at the end, but Max didn’t laugh. 

“I couldn’t think that, Dorian.” He said seriously. “I won’t let him make you do anything you don’t want to.” 

Dorian felt foolish, all of a sudden. Max was looking at him seriously, like he was making a battle plan to take down a dragon or search for a missing scout. His father—wasn’t a monster. He didn’t deserve that. 

He nodded, once, and then took a hesitant step closer. 

_”Why did you come here, father?”_ he asked in Tevene. The point had been made. 

His father inclined his head towards him. _”I wanted to see if you were alive”_

Dorian scoffed. _”Lies. You knew I was alive from your correspondence with the Revered Mother. What do you really want?”_. 

His father sighed, and seemed to crumple slightly. When had he gotten so old? _”Your mother is ill. You are our only child. I thought, naively, that you would want to know that._ ” 

_”You could have sent a letter.”_

_”Would you have opened it?_ ” 

He seemed to take Dorian’s silence as confirmation, and shook his head slightly. _”We’re too alike, you know. Too much pride.”_

Dorian felt his stomach flip. _”I’m_ nothing _like you.”_

He smiled slightly, as though he knew that Dorian would say that. _”So you say. I know you think I wronged you, Dorian.”_

_”You_ did _wrong me, father. I didn’t deserve that.”_

_“Oh? And what would you have done in my position?”_

_“What’s_ right _, father. You taught me that that was the most important thing.”_

_“And in the conflict between what is right for a family, or a city, or a nation, and what is right for an individual, what would you have me choose?”_

Dorian had no answer to that. _”I’m leaving, father. I thought—it doesn’t matter. Of course you’re not sorry.”_

Halward looked at him, his expression calm, only the creases at the corner of his eyes betraying his distress. _”Once, I had a son who trusted me. I betrayed that trust. I_ am _sorry, Dorian, but I would do it again.”_

_“You have a strange definition of ‘sorry’, father.”_ He turned, angling his body away from his father. _”The Venatori are stronger than they were. I’d guess you know that already. Try not to get killed.”_

His father nodded, slowly. _”Goodbye, Dorian.”_

“Goodbye,” he said softly, in Trade.   
He turned to Max, who had been studiously ignoring the shouts and whispers in Tevene. “We should go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Internalized homophobia, substance abuse, homophobia, etc. At this point those should probably just be taken as the standard warning for every chapter of this fic.  
> Also, there is quite a bit of smut in this one. Oops?

 

They were silent as they trecked back to camp. Max tried to start conversation once, twice-- and gave up when Dorian responded with monosyllabic grunts that failed to convey anything except disdain.

 

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, Max hadn’t done anything wrong-- but Dorian wanted-- he didn’t know what he wanted. He was numb, somehow, as though everything was happening at arm’s length, but still with the terrible burning itch beneath his skin that made him want to hide.

He wanted to hide, he wanted to cry, he wanted to crawl inside his bedroll and never see the light of day again, he wanted to leave, he wanted to go home, he wanted a drink.

 

He-- he didn’t know what he wanted.

 

Back at camp, a thin druffalo stew was bubbling over the fire. It was Cassandra’s turn to cook that night, which meant that there would be some pepper and garlic in the stew to cut the dull gamey flavour. Nevarrans, at least, were good for a couple of things.

 

As the sun set over the Hinterlands, Varric walked over to the bit of log that Dorian had claimed as his own, glowering at Max whenever he looked like he was going to approach and make him-- talk.

 

Dorian glared at him, too, before he offered an open bottle that he must have kept in his personal things, because Dorian was pretty sure that he had cleaned out their collective supply on the way down from Skyhold.

 

It had been a-- tense journey.

 

“You look like nug shit, Sparkler,” Varric said gravely. “Copper for your thoughts?”

 

Dorian took a deep swig, and choked. “Andraste’s tits, Varric, what is that?”

 

Varric smiled. “One of the bottles the Inquisitor got from those cultists in the hills. I try not to ask too many questions about what is in those.”

 

Dorian nodded, tried a smile. It felt awkward and tight on his face. “That’s probably for the best.”

 

“Family shit’s always rough,” Varric said softly, his voice a low rumble. “Nothing to be done about it except drink.”

 

Dorian nodded again, tentatively touching his tongue to his lips. “I-- thanks.”

 

“Don’t mention it, kid.” Varric smiled and reassuringly patted his arm. “I mean really, please don’t. Mushy’s good for stories, but I have a feeling it would give you hives.”

 

Dorian snorted into the vile liquor. “Are you suggesting I have some kind of earnestness allergy, Ser Tethras?”

Varric grinned, his eyes crinkling with warmth. “Everyone does, Sparkler. Except people like his Inquisitorialness. Hawke was like that too-- that’s what makes them the heroes of the story, you see.”

 

Dorian nodded slowly, and took another drink. The burning sensation in his throat spread throughout his stomach, warming him from the inside.

 

He hadn’t realised he was so cold.

 

“Anyway,” Varric said after a moment, “You should get some rest. Everything always seems worse at night.”

 

“I don’t want to sleep,” Dorian said without thinking. “I-- I can’t.”

 

He cursed at his voice, so young and fragile sounding, and he quickly took another drink to disguise his shame. Varric just nodded,tilting his head like he was weighing something with his eyes.

 

“Believe me when I tell you that I know the feeling, kid.” He pushed himself up from the log, and stretched dramatically. “You stay here, then. We can’t all be as beautiful as you-- some of us need all the help we can get.”

 

Dorian smiled, the expression feeling odd on his face. He-- appreciated what Varric was trying to do, really he did. He just--

Maker, why was everything so hard?

It should have-- he shouldn’t feel like this. He had-- if not forgiven his father, at least accepted it-- long ago. He hadn’t--

he wasn’t a child any longer, why did such things still have so much power over him?

* * *

 

He had been a boy when he left Tevinter. He hadn’t thought so at the time, of course. He was a man-- that was the whole  damnable point  of it, that he had been  a man.

 

He was 24, a man now, and any respectable man would put aside childish things.

 

Things like boys, and drink, and--

 

He knew how it sounded. A spoiled child who refused to grow up, who refused to take on the responsibilities that were his duty.

 

An Altus didn’t choose his own fate. Every citizen of Tevinter had a role to play, a part in the glory of empire and the Imperium.

 

Sometimes, their bitter fights with the Qunari seem ironic.

 

The Soperati became men younger-- no education at the Circle, no careful apprenticeship that stretched youth to its limits before a carefully chosen marriage at 21-- they married younger, worked younger, fought younger.

  
Boyhood was a privilege of the Altii, and Dorian knew he was blessed, that someone of his temperament wouldn’t last a minute in the Legion or in the fields.

 

Could anybody blame him for wanting it to last a little bit longer?

 

That first time at the lyrium den had been-- something. Frightening and exhilarating and maddening, memories that made him burn with shame until he wanted to crawl inside his own bones and claw his way out, ripping to shreds everything that made him soft.

 

He was too soft by half. It was one of his many failings.

 

That had been his first trip. It had not been the last.

 

Rumours found their way back to Qarinus, and when his father returned to Minrathous in the rainy season Dorian found himself summoned to a dinner.

 

He was 17, and his stomach felt like lead as he prepared for the meal. He sat in the apprentice baths and shook, forcing himself to take small sips of wine to settle his stomach as he rubbed a soft dawn lotus scented oil across his chest and meticulously scraped off the grime.

 

A dab of Amrita Vein tonic in his hair-- such a feminine smell, too soft by half, but it settled his stomach and his fears when nothing else would.

 

It would be fine. Father wouldn’t-- he wouldn’t send him away, he was performing so well in his apprenticeship, he wouldn’t--

 

he couldn’t breathe, and his stomach was roiling, and it wasn’t long before he ejected the contents of his stomach into the tub. It was mostly liquid.

 

The sound of the gong marked the passing of an hour, and Dorian flinched. He had to leave.

 

He checked his reflection in the mirror carefully, smoothed his hair, and nodded approvingly.

He looked good. With his hands in his pockets, you wouldn’t even know that he was shaking.

 

Dinner was a tense affair, as they both meticulously spoke around anything that would cause offence. Halward’s work in the magisterium, Dorian’s performance as Alexius’ assistant, nothing either of them would have been hesitant to tell a colleague. Nothing that either of them didn’t know already.

 

It was not until the slaves brought dessert-- stewed persimmons and velania’s ashes, honeyed wine and dates-- that Halward pushed  himself up slightly from his reclining position and gave Dorian a serious look.

 

“There are rumours about you, Dorian,” he said quietly.

 

Dorian gulped, his stomach twisting so the persimmons and wine churned. “I-- what sort of rumours, Magister?”

Good, that was good, use his title, head down, show deference. He consciously relaxed his body, trying to sink into the cushioned pallet and hide any tension.

 

Halward nodded slightly, as though that was the response he had expected. “I suspect you know exactly what kind of rumours, Dorian. Or perhaps you have a heretoforth undiscovered twin who has taken to carousing in lyrium dens and fucking elves?”

 

His voice was soft and cool, as though discussing the price of pepper in the Magisterium.

 

“I-- no, Magister. I don’t believe so.”

 

“Well then, what is the explanation for your behaviour? I’m waiting.”

 

“I-- I don’t know, Magister.”

 

Halward nodded again. “And truthfully, those rumours are not the ones which trouble me. All men are boys once, and although you should have gotten such things out of your system long ago, it is not unusual for a young man such as yourself to develop an interest in the... darker sides of life.”

 

Dorian flushed. “Yes, Magister.”

 

“No, the rumours which concern me are those which concern yourself and the Aparnum boy. Julius, was it? Such a shame to the family when he was disinherited, but at least their girl was a mage. Not all families are so lucky.”

 

Dorian gulped. “I -- so I hear, Magister.”

 

“Let me be very clear, Dorian. These rumours will not be tolerated for much longer. For now, they can be written off as the carousing of an innocent boy-- but you are soon to be a man, and the heir to House Pavus cannot be seen with such-- filth.

“It is an honour to be an Altus, Dorian. I’ve taught you that since before you could speak. I thought that you knew that.”

 

Dorian could barely speak. Filth-- said with such venom, the kind his father usually reserved for Magisters who were cruel to their slaves or who otherwise tarnished themselves with blood magic.

 

The name Pavus was not one to be taken lightly. An Altus house that did not just publicly decry blood magic, but who actively spoke against it in the Magisterium. An Altus house with an impeccable bloodline which had been rehabilitated by Halward and his father before him into a house whose name was spoken with respect.

 

The House had many enemies-- assassination attempts were common, as were other threats-- but there wasn’t a soul who mattered in Tevinter who didn’t know that House Pavus stood strong in their beliefs.

 

Halward Pavus never said anything he didn’t mean.

 

And he had called Dorian “filth”.

 

Dorian took a shaky breath, drawing his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. “I-- I do know that, Magister. Truly.”

 

Halward cocked his head at that. “You are impeccable in all other ways, Dorian. You will make an excellent Magister, one day. The kind of Magister Tevinter needs, even if it is not what they think they want. Someone who will make the Imperium great again.”

 

He eyed him seriously. “But you cannot be that person if you continue with such shameful displays of deviance. That is not the legacy of House Pavus.”

 

He was quiet for a moment. “You understand, Dorian, that this cannot be tolerated. You get one warning, one chance.”

 

Dorian nodded silently. “I-- I understand, father.”

 

“Good.” Halward stood up. “I hear good things about your work with Magister Alexius. As soon as he deems you fit to move one, you shall be betrothed.”

 

He took a step closer to Dorian, who was still lying on the pallet. He seemed to tower over him as he spoke.

“This is a mistake you get to make once, Dorian. Deviance will not be tolerated. This is your first and last warning.” HIs voice was surprisingly gentle.

 

Dorian flushed, and nodded, the wine curdling in his stomach.

 

“Good evening, Dorian,” Halward said softly.

Dorian quickly stood and bowed his head. “Good evening, father.”

 

Halward nodded, and walked out of the room.

* * *

It- Maker, if only he had been able to stop.

 

Sometimes it had seemed like a sickness, other times like possession, this thing that made him want so much so badly.

 

He hadn’t kept his word. He had gone back to lyrium dens, back to the Alienage, had let all manner of people in all manner of states of inebriation fuck him--

maybe it would have been alright, if he hadn’t let them fuck him. Maybe it would have been alright if he could have been a proper man, for once.

 

He didn’t-- he didn’t know anymore. And in the two years before the conclave that he had spent wandering Ferelden and Orlais, never staying in the same town for too long, sometimes sucking cock for a room or a bed or a flagon of beer-- he hadn’t managed to figure it out.

 

He should have been better. Could have been better.

 

He wondered, sometimes, what it must be like not to feel such instinctive repulsion towards one’s own desires.

 

Max walked over to his spot by the fire, watching him carefully. “Are you alright, Dorian?” his voice was surprisingly soft, a deep gentle rumble in his chest.  “That was a hell of a thing.”

 

Dorian snorted into the bottle. It was vile, but strong, and he felt himself warming from the inside out. “I’m only sorry you had to see it, Inquisitor.”

 

Max flinched at the title, flung at his face like an arcane bolt. “I thought we were beyond titles, Lord Pavus.”

 

Dorian snorted again, and drank deeply. “I don’t think you can call me that anymore. I mean, I suppose technically you’ve never been able to call me that, only Father didn’t formally disinherit me when I left. I expect he will now, though.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Max said simply. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

 

“Can’t you?” his bitterness surprised him. “Is it so perfect in Ostwick, then? Noble’s sons are never condemned for their perversions?”

 

“It’s not a perversion,” he said softly.

 

“I know that.” Dorian spat.

 

“I don’t think you do.”

 

Dorian scowled, and drained the bottle. He felt heavy and hot, and the liquor wasn’t working because he still felt like he wanted to tear apart his skin and expose his bones to the cold night air-- “You should fuck me.”

 

Max blinked. “Beg pardon?”

 

Dorian made a dismissive gesture. “You should fuck me. I know you want to. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

 

“I don’t-- Dorian, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You’re upset, and we’re in camp, and--”

 

“--If you don’t do it,” Dorian said seriously. “I will go find someone who will. There’s bound to be a lonely soldier in Redcliffe looking for a warm hole to stick his cock in.”

 

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Max said seriously. “Dorian, I really don’t think--”

 

“Would it help if I said that I’ll still love you in the morning?” Dorian asked humourlessly.

 

Max gave him a week half smile, then opened his eyes wide. “Do you?”

 

“Do I what?” He tipped the bottle against his lips, annoyed at its emptiness.

 

“Love me.” Max said simply.

 

Dorian groaned. “Maxwell Trevelyan, everyone is in love with you. I just-- I can’t do this right now, ok? I’m drunk, and it’s late, and we’re in the fucking woods, and I’ve had rather a trying day if you  recall---”

 

“--Alright,” Max said soothingly, pressing his thumb against Dorian’s lips. “It’s alright, Dorian. We can-- table that discussion for another time.”

 

He leaned in and kissed him deeply. Dorian was-- surprised, as he opened his mouth to the other man’s questioning tongue. He hadn’t done-- this-- in a long time. Not since  he and Rilenus,

golden boys of Tevinter, had, had--  

 

He wasn’t thinking about Rilenus right now.

 

Dorian felt a heat inside him growing as he grew hard. He broke the kiss. “Tent?”

 

Max nodded, and beckoned for Dorian to follow him.

 

Dorian found the terrain surprisingly difficult, and as he stumbled Max put his hand under his arm to steady him.

 

“You’re really quite drunk,” Max observed. “Are you sure about this?”

 

Dorian nodded blearily. He was quite drunk, he supposed-- although he was certain he didn’t look as drunk as he felt. He felt drunk enough that everything seemed to be happening far away from him, and he knew from experience that this was the kind of drunk where he was unlikely to remember anything the next morning.

 

Good. He could get fucked by the Inquisitor and they could leave it there. Just a port in a storm, that’s all.

 

In the tent, Dorian hesitated about undoing his buckles, afraid that his clumsy fingers would give him away.

 

He wouldn’t want to fuck him if he realised how drunk he was. Wouldn’t want to tarnish himself with someone as foolish as Dorian.

 

Good men were like that.

 

A stroke of genius hit him, and he gave Max his best come-hither eyes. “You should undress me.”

 

Max’s eyes widened. “I-- yes, I can do that.” He mumbled, half to himself. He pushed Dorian

down onto the bedroll, arm around his waist to slow the descent. Then he made short work of the buckles and belts, each tie exposing more of Dorian’s creamy caramel skin in the near-darkness.

 

Dorian groaned, as the cool air on his chest hardened his nipples and coincided with a feeling of heat inside him-- arousal building or the alcohol hitting him, he wasn’t sure which.

 

Max grinned wolfishly, teeth gleaming in the darkness. He gently pulled off his underrobes and folded it carefully, and Dorian was struck by how much care Max seemed to put into everything.

 

He leaned in, then, stubble brushing against Dorian’s throat, and began kissing his neck as his hands moved to explore other parts of him.

 

He moved his head down, sucking hard to create a deep bruise, and even though Dorian was good at this he couldn’t help but let out an audible groan that he immediately tried to suck back.

 

Max looked up from his task and smirked. “Don’t hide, Dorian”

 

Dorian shook his head drunkenly, voice finally slurred from drink and pleasure. “Max, you absolute asshole, fuck me.”

 

“We’re gonna do this right, Dorian,” Max said in a low voice. “Now, hips up for me.”

 

Dorian tilted his pelvis off the ground, groaning when Max moved back far enough that he couldn’t get any pressure on his throbbing cock from Max’s torso as he pulled off his smallclothes.

 

Dorian sighed breathily as cool air hit his cock, tightening instinctively.

 

Max muttered something in the darkness, and Dorian raised his head blearily. “Whaa-?”

 

Max laughed softly as he began to rub his hands together. “Grease spell. Circles had to be good for something, right?”

 

“I suppose so,” Dorian murmured.

 

Max carefully covered his hole and perineum with lube, stroking lightly with his ring and little finger, laughing as Dorian whined and tried to press down.

 

“Patience, patience,” Max muttered as he finally, finally pressed inside him.

It didn’t take long-- Dorian’s muscles were relaxed by drink and slightly numbed, and so when he pushed in with another finger and whispered “Is this too much?” Dorian couldn’t even feel the burning sensation that he associated with being stretched open.

 

A mutter, more grease applied, and his fingers began moving slowly, curving upwards to the spot that always made him shake with pleasure, scissoring lightly before withdrawing completely.

 

Dorian could barely see, definitely couldn’t speak, but he groaned at the lack of pressure before he felt Max lining up his cock with his entrance.

 

“You ready, Dorian?” Max asked.

 

Dorian gave a slurred groan of agreement, and Max began to slowly push in.

 

Once he was in, and moving, Dorian felt himself slipping away on a hot wave of pleasure.

He didn’t have to think, didn’t have to be, everything was shrunk down to this moment, this feeling, this time and place--

he cried out, forgetting in his excitement to bite down against his arm to muffle his cries, but Max only laughed victoriously at his mewls.

 

“You should be as loud as you want,” Max said encouragingly. “Maker you’re gorgeous like this, I wish you could see it.”

 

Dorian groaned and tightened around Max, who let out a corresponding groan of pleasure. “You’re so good for me, Dorian. So hot.”

 

Dorian mewled again in pleasure, and Max began moving more quickly, and Dorian found himself drifting away to the place with no name and no time and no space, just pleasure and heat and a warm wetness and --

 

\--his vision was greying out, stars in front of his eyes, his cock throbbing, and he clumsily began to reach for it before Max shushed him and moved his own hand down to grasp it.

 

If he was sober, Dorian would think how ridiculous, how pathetic he must look-- lying on his back, spread wide open by another man’s cock, crying with gratitude as he jerked him off.

 

As it was, he allowed himself to be swept along by pleasure, groaning and shaking and crying as the heat built and built and built--

 

\--when he came his vision greyed out properly, and in the lost seconds or minutes Max emptied himself inside of Dorian, who could barely speak, let alone move.

 

As Max pulled out and began rummaging around for a cloth and his waterskin, Dorian sighed and allowed himself to be pulled along into unconsciousness.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian woke up with an ache in his head and his ass, a damp hollowness somewhere in his stomach, and an instinctive flash of panic. 

It was hardly the first time he'd woken up unsure of what he'd done the previous night-- at this point, he was very good at context clues -- but he wasn't in his quarters, which meant he hadn't left the night before, which meant, which meant--  
At that point, Max walked into the tent, and Dorian exhaled. He was with the Inquisitor in the field. He was in his tent. He must have gone out the night before and--  
"Hey," Max said with a soft smile. "How you doing?"  
_Fasta vass_. That smile only meant one thing, and Dorian gulped, wincing at the taste in his throat. "I-- alright. Better than yesterday." 

Max's smile tightened, but he nodded. "There's tea and oatmeal on the fire. I could bring you some, if you wanted."

Dorian shook his head, and gasped at the pain. "Ah-- no, Inquisitor. That would hardly do."

Max nodded, his smile fading. For a moment, Dorian wondered desperately what he had to do to put it back. 

He pushed himself up, slowly, wondering with each creak and grind of bone when he had gotten so old. The two years he'd spent wandering Orlais and Ferelden, when added to the last six months with the Inquisition, had not been kind to him. 

Max's hand twitched against his side, like he wanted to help Dorian up but knew that his pride wouldn't stand it. 

As Dorian ran a trembling hand over his face and hair, trying to smooth them into something approximating normality, Max spoke. 

"Dorian, I-- should I be turning myself in?"

Dorian blinked in shock. "I-- I beg your pardon?"

"I-- we shouldn't have done that last night. _I_ shouldn't have done that." 

Dorian swallowed against the roiling in his stomach. "I-- I understand, Inquisitor. It-- as far as I am concerned it never happened. A moment of weakness." 

Max screwed up his face in frustration. "No!" He blinked, as though surprised by his own vehemence. "No, I mean-- I didn't mean the sex. That, I'd-- if you want to, that is." 

Dorian blinked, not quite sure he was following. "So if it's not the sex, what is it? I can be discrete, you know." 

"Oh, Maker take your discretion," Max muttered. "No, what I mean is-- I don't--" He paused, as though struggling to find the right words. 

Dorian sighed. "Max, can we by any chance have this conversation after I've had some breakfast? A potion, perhaps?"

Max blinked in surprise. "Er-- yes, of course. Until later, then." 

Dorian nodded. "Until later."  
\--  
Dorian ate breakfast mostly in silence, making the appropriate noises whenever Varric paused in the story he was telling. Something about a wyvern and Queen Anora's favourite serving girl, Dorian wasn't really listening. 

As they were packing to leave, Cassandra came over to him.  
"I am sorry, Dorian. I understand that yesterday did not go as you planned."

Dorian snorted as he began wrapping his travel potion supplies in a soft piece of plaideweave. "Not as I'd hoped, maybe. It went almost exactly how I had expected." 

Cassandra nodded. "You have my sympathies." 

Dorian cocked his head. "I'm surprised you care, to be honest. I would have thought that seeing the evil magister from Tevinter brought low would bring you pleasure." 

Cassandra frowned at him, but was silent. After a moment, Dorian lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, that was unworthy of me." 

"It was," Cassandra agreed. "But I do understand, whatever you may think of me. Nevarran politics are not so different from Tevinter, after all." 

When Dorian looked at her, she continued. "My own parents had the misfortune to be on the wrong side of a civil war. The king had them executed, but spared myself and my brother because we were children." She paused, and looked off into the distance for a moment. "Around my eighteenth summer, when my uncle had me seeing countless potential suitors, I used to imagine that if they were still alive they would have taken my side." She snorted. "They wouldn't have, of course. The Pentaghasts are all practical to a fault." 

"What happened, then?" Dorian asked softly. "I notice a conspicuous lack of a noble marriage."

Cassandra snorted. "I joined the Seekers not long after. I convinced my Uncle that I was to take a vow of celibacy." 

"And did you?" Dorian couldn't resist asking. 

"None of your business, Lord Pavus," Cassandra said coolly, but her cheeks were pink. 

Dorian hid his smile against his shoulder as he finished packing his bag. "Then-- thank you, Lady Seeker." After a moment, he let out a choked laugh. 

"What?" Cassandra asked suspiciously. 

"Nothing," Dorian said, smirking. "I just thought-- if your Uncle had been a touch more ambitious, we could have been betrothed." 

Cassandra stared at him as though he had gone mad. "I would have loathed you." 

"And I you, but think of it-- we would have taken over half of Thedas!" He laughed, feeling a strange sense of joy at the fantasy. "The two of us in luxurious despair, destroying anyone in our way. It might well have lead to the fall of the entire Imperium." 

Cassandra was not amused. "Really, Dorian, you are quite hysterical. It would never have happened. You were a boy in short trousers when I was being betrothed." 

Dorian frowned. "No, no, I would have been out of my _praetexta_ for at least a couple of years. It would have been unusual to betroth a young man that early, but certainly not unheard of." 

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "But not a young woman?"

Dorian shook his head. "No, not even if she were a mage. The lesser noble houses try and betroth their children as early as possible, with a binding contract. That way, even if it turns out that their daughter is not a mage, they have some assurances of her being bound to a mage or at the very least a family with strong magic in their blood. The children of such a match are likely to be mages, and that's a good enough return on the investment for everyone involved." 

Cassandra nodded. "I suppose I've never really thought how the emphasis on magical breeding must change things." 

Dorian shrugged. "it's common enough for noble children in other countries to be betrothed as children, though. It's been my experience that politics is much the same everywhere." 

He straightened, swinging his shoulder bag across his back. "We should get going. If we don't start riding soon, we'll never reach the other side of the Frostbacks by nightfall. If there's one thing I hate more than night riding, it's night riding on a mountain." 

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "It is warm in Nevarra too, you know. And yet I do not wilt at a gust of wind." 

Dorian smiled. "I think that what we have established with this entire conversation, Seeker, is that you are a much stronger person than I." 

"You do me too much credit," she said coolly, but with a slight smile. 

The time on horseback did little for his aches and pains, and by the time they reached Skyhold he felt as though he could sleep for a week. 

He felt wrung out and hollow, and he ached for his bed. 

First, though, the horses had to be taken care of, and routine would dictate that reports should be submitted to the advisers, but--  
he couldn’t do that, yet. Couldn’t figure out how to write dispassionately about the meeting, or how to assess his father like an enemy threat. Weakness was a danger, and the whole incident had left him bruised and shaken, as though his father and Tevinter and his sexuality all occupied a place in his previously unknown soft underbelly. 

He gave Max a pleading look as he unseated from his horse. Max raised an eyebrow curiously. 

“I’m exhausted,” Dorian said quietly, trying--and failing-- to inject the words with his normal imperiousness. 

Max smiled slightly. “Go wash up.” 

Dorian breathed a sigh of gratitude, and left for the baths. 

Bathing in Skyhold was nothing like bathing in Tevinter. 

The south had water in abundance, and acted accordingly-- bathing in it and drinking it. Even their peasants drank it, although their diets were more likely to be supplemented with weak beer than those of the nobility. 

At home-- he supposed Tevinter was still that-- they drank wine and bathed in sweetly scented oils, scraping the dust and grime off their bodies with strigils. When there wasn’t time for that, face and hands would be washed quickly with cold water and soft soap. 

Most southerners bathed less frequently than your average Tevinter-- a consequence, no doubt, of the lack of oppressive heat and humidity-- but when they did they submerged the whole body in stone tubs filled from a pump, the water heated by enchantments on the tub. It was a pleasant enough experience, but slightly unnerving. 

It was strange, the things he missed. 

He thought about it as he soaked, allowing the heat of the water to penetrate to his bones and relax tense muscles. He was two months journey on horseback and at least two weeks on the Waking Sea away from Tevinter, but the meeting with his father made him feel as though it were right next door. 

Possibly he shouldn’t miss it. He should be grateful to be gone, grateful to be struck off, to be a pariah. 

But he loved his father. Had thought he had been loved by him. He-- there had been a time, not too long ago, where Dorian would have done anything if it would make him proud. 

Dorian had always thought that his father was one of the good ones. He had also believed him when he told him that the Alti had greater responsibilities that they must fulfill, and that the dereliction of those responsibilities was as great a crime as the abuse of their power. 

Dorian had believed him. Still believed him. To be sure, being in the south had only solidified his previous beliefs that there were many things about the political structure of Tevinter that were in need of an overhaul, but as long as things were the way they were--  
\-- the system worked, shakily and cruelly, as long as people fulfilled their duties. 

And Dorian hadn’t. Had thought that his own needs, his own cursed _feelings_ , were more important than living as he ought. 

That, above all, was what shamed him. 

By the time he felt ready to face the world again, the pads of his fingers and toes were shriveled like medjool dates. He crept to his chambers along the battlements, not sure that he could handle seeing anyone else right now. His hair was damp, rucked up against his neck in liquid curls, and in his haste to bathe he had forgotten to bring a fresh robe to change into.  
He felt strangely fragile, his nerves prickling like ice at the cold wind along the battlements. 

Having reached his rooms, he clothed himself in his oldest, softest under-robe, and quickly lit the fire in the grating. Then, he sat on the foot of his bed and shook. 

He was okay. He was okay. He was okay. 

He would allow himself this. Five minutes to be upset, to shake and to cry and to feel unnerved. He made the most of that time, curling softly in on himself and driving his fists into the sockets of his eyes as though he could stop the tears. 

After five minutes, he sat up and sniffed. The tears and shakes were subsiding, leaving in their place a terrible exhausted nothingness. 

He poured a glass of the strong Antivan red he kept by his bedside, and downed it in two quick gulps, gasping slightly as he began to feel the warmth in his belly. 

He poured another and drank it slower as he began the process of reassembling his appearance. His hands were still shaking slightly, and it took several tries and another glass of wine before he managed to apply the kohl under his eyes.  
He pulled on the fine dark teal enchanters coat the Inquisitor had commissioned for him, all soft tan leather and rich velvet.  
It was comforting. 

Finally, having dusted his cheekbones lightly with an opalescent powder and slicked back his hair with dragonthorn oil, he felt ready to face the world again. 

Just in case, he finished the bottle of wine before he walked out the door. 

The library was mostly empty at this time of the day, the mages and Tranquil having departed for their beds. Grand Enchanter Fiona remained in the little alcove she had claimed as an office, quill scratching away at a stack of parchment. It was hard not to sympathise with the woman, shunned and depended upon as she was by so many. 

Dorian knew the feeling. 

He made his way to his own nook, traitorous hands shoved in the pockets of his coat in order to hide the shakes. He would be normal. Nothing had happened on the trip to the Hinterlands that wasn’t normal, and his normal post-mission routine was to bathe, dress, and then relax with one of Genitivi’s travelogues and a glass of whiskey before he either settled down for bed or switched to more productive work. 

He was only a few pages into a highly unlikely tale involving Antivan royalty, the Crows, and a large dawnstone phallus, when a soft cough interrupted his concentration. 

Raising his eyes from the book, Dorian was shocked to see Max, who was still in his travelling clothes, having clearly been unable to find a chance to wash before he came to see him.  
Dorian felt a thrum of guilt at that, and took a sip of whiskey to disguise it. 

“Inquisitor,” he said with a smile he did not feel. “What can I do for you?”  
Max frowned, and sat down, perching on the armrest of the chair. 

“I thought I would come and check how you were doing. That can’t have been how you thought that would go.” 

Dorian shrugged, trying to convey rakish nonchalance. “Believe you me, Inquisitor, that very much qualified as a ‘good visit’ with my father. I don’t think we’ve been that civil to each other since I was fifteen.” 

The twist of Max’s mouth told him that that hadn’t gone down as he had intended, and his stomach twisted.  
“Would you care for a drink?” He asked.  
Max shook his head. “I still have to meet with Josephine after this. Cullen interrupted me on the way in from the stables with some urgent information about Samson, and I haven’t actually had a chance to debrief her yet. Maybe some other time?”

Dorian nodded, trying to ignore the sinking in his heart. Max wasn’t acting any differently than he normally would. Perhaps he wanted to pretend nothing happened after all.  
That was good, probably. Dorian would just slow him down. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Dorian said after a moment. “I-- I would not have exposed you to my father, given a choice.” 

Max frowned, smiling slightly. “Don’t apologise.” He hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully. “I-- you said he tried to change you.” 

Dorian felt his stomach clench again, and he took another deep drink to steady his hands. “Yes.” 

“Can you even do that?” He sounded incredulous. 

Dorian shrugged, awkwardly. “Blood magic... can do a great many things, nearly all of them ugly. I am not certain whether his intent was simply to make me his thrall, march me through the process of being wedded and reproducing, or if he actually sought to... change me. I think it was the latter. He-- he found a ritual, and he was desperate-- I _made him_ desperate. It might have worked. It might also have left me a drooling vegetable. I’ve no idea.” 

He took another sip of whiskey, and refilled the glass. 

“I managed to disrupt the ritual, albeit barely, and left Tevinter quite quickly after that. Selfish of me, I suppose, not to want to spend the rest of my life screaming on the inside.” 

Max was looking at him, soft compassion in his eyes. Dorian couldn’t stand it. 

“You probably think I’m a fool,” he said quietly. “I-- there was a time in my life when I would have wanted nothing more than for the ritual to succeed, but now I’m so glad it didn’t. I don’t know what kind of man I would be. I don’t think I’d like him.” 

Max smiled, his lips twisting the scar that ran up his chin. “I think you’re brave, actually.” 

Dorian scoffed, but couldn’t help but smile. “I-- I’m sorry to put all that on you. You’ve enough responsibilities as it is, without listening to me blather on.” 

Max blinked slowly, and then reached out to gently touch Dorian’s cheek. His hand was strong and broad, calloused from wielding a staff. “Don’t apologise. I’m always happy to listen.” 

He leaned in, bracing himself from falling straight into Dorian’s lap with an arm on the other armrest, and kissed him deeply. When he broke the kiss, both men panting slightly, he pressed his lips to his ear. 

“I’m so glad you’re here, Dorian. I can’t imagine not having you.” 

Dorian blinked, but before he could properly respond, Max was gone.  
\---  
It was true, what he had told Max-- there was a time when he would have been sick with gratitude at the thought of the ritual. Not the blood magic, that would have still repelled him, but the idea that something out there could fix him. Could heal him. 

With the exception of the brief kiss with Rilenus when he was a boy, for a time it seemed that his appetites brought him nothing but pain. The dinner with his father had frightened him, but it had not stopped him. 

He began frequenting the lyrium dens more frequently, slipping out at night after the others were asleep and spending the night drifting on a soft cloud of pleasure and heat as he opened his mouth and his ass to Julian. It wasn’t nice, wasn’t _love_ , but it was something. It made him feel less broken, for a time. 

When he came too, his head aching and his mouth full of cotton, his thighs streaked with spend and kohl smeared across his face, he felt shame, hot like lead in his stomach. 

It was like an addiction, like a compulsion, these welcome-unwelcome touches that burned like a brand. He wanted to please his father, but-- he couldn’t. It was like a sickness. 

The longer it went on, the more he tried to stop. He would avoid the dens for days at a time before he ventured back in a storm of debauchery. As time went on, he began to wake every morning with a familiar prickle at the back of his neck and a trembling in his stomach that was not averted until he returned to the lyrium dens at night at let someone fuck the feeling out of him as he drifted on a haze of pleasure-pain. 

It was about that time that a formal invitation arrived from Maevaris Tilani. He was to attend to her at a private dinner. 

House Tilani and House Pavus had had a nominal alliance when Anthir Tilani was still alive, and it had only deepened since. House Pavus had a reputation as principled moderates who were nevertheless ruthless with their rivals, while Anthir had been equally principled but inoffensive and unwilling to inflict harm. His execution by the Templars had been a learning opportunity for everyone, and Halward had made it very clear to Dorian that this was the inevitable result of weakness. If you wanted to change the Imperium, you must be powerful and above reproach, or you would die. 

Maevaris was another story. She had quickly and cleanly had the Magisters behind her father’s death assassinated, gaining the respect of the Magisterium as it became apparent that she was her father’s daughter in every way but one: she would take no prisoners. 

Halward disapproved of her and approved of her in equal measure, but more than either one he feared her. 

Dinner that night was a formal affair, despite it being just the two of them. Maevaris was clad in a beautiful silken robe, a high collar of black feathers exposing her creamy throat. 

(Mae’s clothes always exposed her throat, in what Dorian always assumed was an act of defiance against those who objected to her purported deviance.) 

“So,” Mae said in a light tone as she ate bits of chicken with her fingers. “I understand that you are the talk of the town, Dorian.” 

Dorian gulped, his stomach churning. “I suppose so,” he said, his tone light. “People have so little to talk about, you see.” 

Mae laughed heartily. “You play the game well, child. I’m glad to see it-- you will need to.” Suddenly serious, she fixed him with a firm stare. 

Dorian felt himself run cold. “You-- you’ve hear the rumours, then.” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“And you know they’re true.” 

“Yes.” A pause. “Well, I’m assuming most of them are. I don’t think you’ve been using blood magic to force oliphants to engage in craven displays of oliphant homosexuality, but I suppose one never knows.”  
“What?” Dorian asked incredulously. “I hadn’t heard that one. No, that ones not true.”  
“But the ones about you parading about with the Aparnum cinaedus in the lyrium dens are?” Her tone was neutral, as though discussing the weather. 

Dorian felt his chest constrict, and his face burned with shame. “I-- yes.” 

His hands were shaking, and he took a deep sip of honeyed wine. 

Mae smiled softly at him. “Oh, Dorian, you foolish boy.” 

Dorian flinched. “I’m sorry.” 

Mae frowned. “Don’t be sorry, silly boy. You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

Dorian frowned, and folded in on himself. “I-- you’re a spirit healer, right?”

Mae raised an eyebrow. “Spirit healing is among my talents, but I fail to see why that--” 

“--Can you fix me?” Dorian interrupted in a rush. “I need you to fix me.” 

Mae paused, blinking slowly. “I-- Dorian--” 

“--I need you to,” Dorian said seriously. “I’ve looked in books and things, and I can’t-- there must be a spell, Mae, it’s like there’s something inside me making me do these things, and all it ever does is hurt people. Hurt me. Hurt my family. It’s like a demon, but I’m not possessed, I don’t think, but I can’t make myself stop _wanting_.” His breath came quickly, and he felt himself blinking back tears. “I don’t want to be like this, Mae. Father will disown me, and I’ll be lucky not to be killed, and I keep making mistakes and I’m not _allowed_ to make mistakes, not like this.” He felt himself beginning to cry, but he couldn’t quite stop it. “If there’s something that will cure me, I’ll do it, I don’t care. I just don’t want to hurt anymore. I want to be normal.” 

Mae stood from her reclining position and walked over to join Dorian on his pallet. She placed a slender, muscled arm around him, and Dorian felt himself being drawn into a warm embrace. 

“Dorian, I need you to listen to me,” she said softly. She paused, waiting for him to nod his attention before continuing. “I can cure any ailment short of death. I can re-attach a limb, if I get there quickly enough. I can prevent blindness and lameness and all manner of tragedy, but I can’t cure this.” 

Dorian was crying, and turned his head to hide his tears in her bosom. “Why not?” he choked. “If it’s-- if there isn’t the right spell, or something, then maybe we can try and find--” 

“--I can’t cure it,” Mae said, slowly and carefully, “Because it’s not a disease, Dorian. There’s nothing wrong with you.”  
Dorian shook his head fiercely. “You’re wrong about that, Mae. I can’t stop.Something must be inside me, making me feel like this.” 

Mae smiled indulgently, her eyes compassionate. “The only thing making you feel like this, as you say, is your little emotional adolescent heart. I was fifteen once too, Dorian.” 

“I’m seventeen, actually,” he sniffed.

“When I was your age,” she went on as though he had not spoken, “People spat at me every time I tried to leave the compound. They nearly laughed father out of the Magisterium. The scandal could have destroyed us, and certainly helped to destroy him. It was wretched.” 

Dorian made a sympathetic noise. He had been too young, barely out of his praetexta, when the initial scandal broke that Magister Tilani’s only son and heir was a deviant who claimed to be a woman. The family had weathered the scandal, but barely, and Dorian knew that it was only Mae herselves immense powers and ties to the lyrium trade that prevented the same people from spitting on her now. 

“I’m sorry, Mae, I didn’t think--” 

“--hush,” she interrupted. “I want to show you something. Give me your hand.” 

He did so, and she brought a jeweled dagger out from a hidden pocket in her robes and neatly sliced open the tip of his ring finger. She waved her other hand in a strange looping motion, and the cut began to glow green. Dorian felt himself grow warm inside as the strange light traveled through his body. 

“If there were something wrong with you, some aberration,” she said softly, “Then this is how I would find it. The light would glow red, and it would stop at the location of the centre of the issue. 

You’ve seen me lecture at the Circle, you know what it would look like.” 

Dorian nodded silently. 

“And I’ve just scanned your entire body, and it didn’t stop once. You’re clearly in very good health, Dorian.” 

Dorian nodded again. 

“And there’s nothing wrong with you. Not even liking men. It’s not something you can ‘fix’.” 

He nodded, but felt strangely disappointed. Some of it must have shown on his face, because Mae spoke again. 

 

“Dorian, you’re an arrogant little sod sometimes,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you need a little more of it.” 

Dorian frowned, both at the slight to his character and the nonsensical suggestion. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ you’re better than those who would use this to hurt you. If you weren’t, there’d be  
no reason to try. Don’t do their job for them.” 

Dorian shook his head. “I just-- I want it to be gone.” 

Mae sighed. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I can’t make it go away, not without some kind of blood ritual. Even those are shaky-- you’d be more likely to end up a drooling vegetable than you would a fully functioning human being.” 

Dorian couldn’t keep the tears back, and Mae pulled him into her lap, delicate hands combing through his hair as she gentled him down from his panic. 

After a while, when the storm of his emotions had died down, he looked at her. “Mae? Can you teach me that spell?”

Mae frowned. “Possibly. Are you planning a side career in healing magic? I thought you were apprenticed to a Magister Alexius.”

“I am,” Dorian said softly. “But I think that-- if there’s nothing wrong with me, then-- then maybe sometimes I’ll need reminding.” 

Her face softened at that, and she nodded slowly. “I will teach you.”

**Author's Note:**

> so, let's talk about Ancient Rome!  
> There was a very strong belief in Roman society that flogging or striking someone in anger were actions fit to be done only to slaves, not to freemen. It was not uncommon to strike the slave of someone who had done you wrong in order to punish them while also emasculating them because they failed to adequately protect their property. You also wouldn't beat free (male) children, as it would 'make them slavelike' according to Senacus. 
> 
> The word _cinaedus_ is incredibly difficult to translate-- often it gets translated as 'queer' or 'faggot', but neither of those quite capture it. The _cinaedus_ was one who failed masculinity-- they were effeminate in some way, perceived as being weak, they allowed themselves to be fucked or took pleasure in being fucked even when they were adults. _Cinaedus_ is also an interesting word because unlike the other derogatory words in classical Latin for men who had sex with men, it applied exclusively to adult freemen. It's not a nice word, you guys. 
> 
> Finally, let's talk about lyrium dens. The ideas we have in our heads about 'opium dens' stem from incredibly orientalist writings from Victorian England by people who likely had never visited one themselves. I modeled the lyrium dens off of descriptions of opium dens in 19th century Paris, as those writings are believed to be more accurate (as a nation whose colonial activities were concentrated in Asia, Paris had a stronger opium trade than London). However, it is worth pointing out that recreational opium use was first documented in 3400 BC in Mesopotamia and was common in Classical Rome. Tevinter would have a thriving drug trade, and in a culture where so much is based on magic and performance it is likely that some sort of communal drug culture would exist.
> 
> As you can probably tell, I'm a bit uncertain about this fic, so please let me know what you think.


End file.
